Savor the Memories
by Lazuli1
Summary: A recollection of dinner at the Bristow household.


"Savor the Memories" by Lazuli  
  
Rating: PG Summary: A recollection of dinner at the Bristow household. Disclaimer: "Alias" is property of J.J. Abrams, ABC, and Bad Robot. ~~~ In the beginning, there is love. There is always love.  
  
When I was a little girl, home from school, sitting comfortably on one of our flowery old couches, I used to watch my parents cook dinner. They usually did it together, moving in a well-formed pattern around the kitchen. Dad would usually start the salad, whipping up a pretty palette of vegetables. We used to joke about how salads were the only thing he was good at making, besides chocolate cake. Dad always made the best chocolate cake.  
Mom would usually do the main course, starting several projects at once, making our small kitchenette look like a disaster area. While making the salad, Dad would flit in between, trying to get an early taste of the feast that was to come. Mom would swat away his hands with a towel, loud proclamations of, "JACK! Not yet!" echoing throughout the house. He'd beg for a sample, dancing around her precariously, like a cat around a chained dog. She'd laugh and laugh, while trying to remain serious for me. "When you get married, Sydney," she would say, while throwing knowing, yet teasing, glares at my father, "You tell that husband of yours to not put his fingers where they don't belong. Keep them in line."  
Dad would be tickled pink by the idea of him being "kept in line". He'd dash out to where I sat, pick me up, swing me over his shoulder, and tell me that no man would ever deserve me. I was his little princess forever. He would twirl me around, around, around.  
And she'd watch. Smiling that beautiful smile. It always took his breath away. It took mine away, too.  
Eating at the Bristow household was always an event. When my mother managed to somehow clean up the disaster in the kitchen, the food would be impeccably served on clear plates. The three of us would sit in our little circle, my mother always heaping food into my plate. She used to admonish me for not eating, telling me that I was lucky to even eat. When I think about it now, I wonder if it was difficult for her, growing up in Russia with her three sisters. I wonder if their family was as warm as ours had been. I would tell myself that it was, thinking about how open and friendly she was. It had to be genetic. I'd eat everything put in front of me, satisfying my father's desire to see me "grow up strong". I wanted to be strong for him, so strong that nothing could ever touch me. But not strong enough that he couldn't hold me in his arms and rock me to sleep each night.  
Her smile was so infectious; it would light up the already blazing room. Each bite was taken in moderation, as if to savor every flavor that her taste buds came in contact with. Though still motherly and pleasant, she still retained an air of dignity about her, like a duchess. My father, however, wouldn't hesitate twice to throw a piece of broccoli in my direction, or to stick his tongue out when I made a face at him. I look at the man he is now, and think wryly how he would respond if I tried a move like that today. Most men would shake their heads slowly, and raise their eyes to the heavens in a bemused way. My father would freeze, and then cast his eyes downward, to hide the pain.  
I remember dessert, my father's deep laugh as he twirled around the table, pretending to be our waiter. Sometimes he'd speak in accents, beautiful foreign languages that I'd never heard before, but giggled anyway at the funny and unfamiliar words. Mom always seemed to understand him, though I doubt he knew of her comprehensive knowledge of languages. She would look at me, pretending to be amazed, and say, "Look sweetheart! Our own personal waiter! Isn't that wonderful?" Dad would ask for money, coming to my side and asking for change. "I have a beautiful wife and daughter at home," his French accent making my sides hurt, "How will they eat such fine food as this if you do not pay me?" Monopoly money was always the currency of choice, though if he was extra funny, Mom would toss me a quarter. When I tried to give it to him, he would cover my cheeks in kisses, thanking me over and over. Then he'd sneak the quarter back into my pocket.  
We would sit in the parlor and watch television afterwards, our bellies full. I'd do whatever miniscule elementary school homework I had on the floor, and Mom would have her feet up in Dad's lap. "I'm a slave around here," was the ever popular choice of grumble from Jack Bristow. She gave him those eyes. He complied quickly. And that's how we'd stay for hours, me watching television on the floor, my parents relaxing behind me, occasionally sneaking loving glances at each other. I saw them all in the window, and while some made me smile, I couldn't resist yelling, "Ew! Stop it!" If I had known what I know now, I would have treated each smile as a gift. A gift before the betrayal. Before the darkness.  
As I sit here, alone in my apartment, listening to Weiss walk around in the apartment next to me, I would close my eyes and imagine each moment of dinner. The three of us were so fond of each other, so inseparable. I guess when you're a child, words like "government", or "espionage", or "Rambaldi" sound as unfamiliar as the funny sounds my father would say in his crazy accents. You just accept what is given to you, which is that your father loves your mother, your mother loves your father, they both love you, and everything else is just secondary. I'd give anything to go back to that time. I'd give anything for that sort of belonging again. I'd give anything for their smile and joy.  
  
I'd give anything for another family dinner.  
  
The End. 


End file.
